


Exclusive

by glorious_spoon



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Coming Out, Friendship, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: TAKING IN THE TRASH?? FASHION MOGUL BEV MARSH SPOTTED GETTING COZY WITH RICHIE “TRASHMOUTH” TOZIER AT RENO HOTSPOT!Or: in which a sleazy tabloid article prompts some long-overdue realizations.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 280
Collections: fandomtrees





	Exclusive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> For the prompt _a tabloid article comes out about Richie and Bev having a torrid affair; they both think it’s hilarious_.
> 
> Warnings for referenced drinking and emetophobia, nothing explicit.

When Richie picks up the phone, Eddie is already talking, which is pretty normal. The outraged tenor of his voice is—okay, also pretty normal, but Richie has only been awake for like thirty seconds, so it takes him a moment to parse Eddie’s New York speed-talking rant.

“—the fuck were you two planning on telling the rest of us, huh? Huh, Rich? You were the first person I called when I was getting a divorce, and now you’re letting me find out about this from fucking Twitter?”

“I,” Richie says. “What?”

“You and Bev!” Eddie snaps, sounding well on his way to aneurysm-town. “What the fuck, dude?”

Richie rolls to fumble his glasses off the nightstand and onto his face. That makes the popcorn ceiling of his hotel room come into focus, but it doesn’t do shit to clarify what kind of bug has gotten up Eddie’s ass at—he squints at the clock—Jesus, 6:53 in the morning. That makes it nearly ten in New York, which is slightly less insane, but Eddie is usually pretty thoughtful about the time differences. More thoughtful than Richie is, honestly. He probably deserves this for the last time he called after a late show in L.A., although to be fair he kind of expected Eddie to have his phone on Do Not Disturb.

So, okay, payback, he can roll with that. The rest of it, though… “Seriously, man, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Bev was at your hotel in Reno! This was literally two days ago!”

“I… huh? She was in town for a thing, we met up for drinks. So?” 

“Jesus fucking Christ you have to be kidding me,” Eddie says, then stops. Richie can hear him sucking air, and he folds himself upright, concerned that Eddie is about to have a panic attack right there on the line, but a moment later he lets his breath out, then breathes in again, in a rhythm that seems deliberate and timed. Neurotic little fucker probably looked up deep breathing exercises on Youtube or something. Richie very considerately lets him do it instead of saying something else to wind him up. Eddie seems to be doing that well enough on his own anyway. Finally, he lets out a long, wooshing breath into the phone and says. “Okay. I’m calm.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Richie says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “You wanna run all that by me again?”

“I just…” Eddie trails off, and when he speaks again he sounds less outraged than he does hurt, which makes Richie’s heart twist even though he’s thoroughly baffled and not very awake yet. “I’m not, like, pissed, I just, I don’t know. Why didn't you say something? It kinda sucked to find out like that.”

“Eddie, seriously, I really don’t know…” Richie trails off, puts him on speaker, and pulls up Twitter.

And immediately has reason to regret tracking his own name, because the very top result is a headline that reads, _**TAKING IN THE TRASH??? FASHION MOGUL BEV MARSH SPOTTED GETTING COZY WITH RICHIE “TRASHMOUTH” TOZIER AT RENO HOTSPOT!!**_

Below it is a photo that’s… okay, yeah, pretty fucking cozy. They’re in the booth of the hotel bar, several sheets to the wind, and Bev is straddling him. If Richie’s blurry memories are correct, she was trying to show him how to tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue, which she was too drunk to pull off and he was laughing too hard to even attempt, but that is… really not what it looks like is happening from this angle. It looks like a public indecency in progress, and sure enough the next photo has them draped over each other and giggling outside the elevator banks.

“Oh, shit,” he says out loud. “I’m a dead man.”

He can hear laughter leaking out the corners of his voice, but it’s true. Steve is going to fucking murder him. To say nothing of Bev herself. A moment later, though, something much worse dawns on him. “Wait, has Ben seen these?”

“I have no idea,” Eddie says, sounding uncharacteristically subdued. “I haven’t talked to anyone else yet.”

“Okay, shit, I’ll call him. Or maybe I’ll call Bev first, she can—”

“Okay,” Eddie interrupts. “Sounds good. Hey, listen, I have to go.”

A thought occurs to Richie, belatedly. Very belatedly, but sue him, he just fucking woke up. “Wait, Eds, you know we’re not—”

“Sorry I woke you up,” Eddie says, and hangs up. Richie is left blinking at his phone. A moment later, it lights up with Steve’s number. He hits ignore and calls Bev instead.

“Fuck off, I’m still hungover,” she grumbles into the phone when she answers.

“No can do, Molly Ringwald, this is a four alarm fuckin’ fire.”

“Huh?” She really does sound like shit, raspy and exhausted. “Seriously, Richie…”

“Have you talked to Ben at all today?”

“Um,” she says, and then there’s a rustling noise on the other end of it, and she says, “I’ll let him handle that one.”

“Hi, Richie,” Ben says, sounding sheepish.

“Wait, are you two in _bed?_ ”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Bev starts.

“I’m sorry, _who_ was lending a sympathetic ear to the Beverly Marsh Sexual Frustration Hour two days ago? This is totally my business. Spill.”

“Absolutely not,” Ben says primly. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“You weren’t that much of a gentleman last night,” Bev interjects slyly, and Ben makes a mortified noise over the phone but doesn’t deny it.

"Ben," Richie says, delighted. "You _dog._ "

“Be nice,” Bev says, like she has any room to talk.

“I’m nice, I’m always nice,” Richie says. “Not as nice as _Ben_ , apparently—”

“ _Richie,_ ” Ben says.

“I will hang up on you and block your number,” Bev warns him, but he can tell she’s smiling. “Why are you calling?”

“Well, normally I’d say that it’s just to hear your dulcet tones, et cetera, but, uh.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You remember Reno?”

“Vaguely,” Bev says warily. “Very vaguely.”

“Yeah, so apparently somebody got pictures of us at the bar. And the elevators. And probably more than that, I don’t know, I literally just found out because Eddie called to yell at me about it.”

“Ah, fuck,” Bev sighs.

“Yeah. You think it would help if I tweeted that after we got up to my room you puked on my pillow and then spent an hour telling me about how you were going to die alone and sexually frustrated because Benny-boy couldn’t catch a clue?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“So that’s a no. And hey, I paid the cleaning fee, didn’t I?”

“Okay, yes, fine, that was very magnanimous of you.” She pauses. “Also, that’s not how I put it, Ben.”

“I know,” Ben says gently. God, they’re so adorable that _Richie_ is going to puke, without the excuse of the seven Appletinis that Bev put away the other night.

“Hey, I’m just saying. I could clear this up real quick.”

“I thought you were trying to walk back the douchebag persona.”

“ _Trying_ being the operative word here.” He really should be a little less of an asshole about it, though, given that Bev hasn’t brought up Richie’s own sad sexually frustrated ramble from that night. Yet. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” She pauses, and then snorts. She must have found the photos. “Okay, yeah, these look bad.”

“Right? Holy shit. I’ve gotten arrested for public indecency that was less incriminating than this.”

“Wait, really?” Ben asks.

“Dude, it was in college, I was drunk—can we focus here?”

“Oh, you are definitely telling _that_ story the next time we hang out,” Bev says. There’s a brief silence, and then she cackles. “Was this the thing with the cherry?”

“Yeah. I still don’t believe you can do that, by the way. I’m pretty sure you spat it in my _mouth_ by accident.”

“I’m pretty sure you ate it,” she retorts.

“Yeah, well, everybody already knows I’m disgusting.”

“True,” Bev says. “Wait, did you say Eddie called you?”

“Yep, bright and early and raring to chew my head off.”

“Oh, Richie,” she sighs, and Richie makes a face at the ceiling, because she promised she wouldn’t bring that up. Pinky-promised, even, drunkenly sincere before they fell asleep like a pair of overtired toddlers on the plush area rug in front of the TV.

“Don’t start,” he says.

“I’m not starting anything,” she says, which is clearly a _lie_ , because the next thing she says is, “You told him it’s not true, right?”

“No, he hung up on me,” Richie says.

“ _Richie._ ”

“What? How is this my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was your fault!”

“You should call him back,” Ben interjects, and there’s something in his voice that gives Richie pause. Something _knowing._

“Bev,” he says, feeling entirely too raw for just past seven on a Tuesday morning when he hasn’t even had coffee yet. “You promised. You fucking pinky-swore.”

“Bev didn’t tell me anything,” Ben says. “I just… I remember how I was with her, and, well. It takes one to know one, you know?”

“Fuck,” Richie says, and presses his knuckles to the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So is there anybody who _doesn’t_ know about my pathetic gay crush on Eddie, or…?”

It’s still hard to spit it out. It was hard to spit it out to Bev after however many whiskeys he had that night, and it’s hard to spit it out now to Ben, who clearly already knows. Even now, even after everything.

“It’s not pathetic,” Ben tells him earnestly.

Richie huffs a laugh. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m pretty sure Eddie doesn’t know,” Bev offers. “If that helps. I don’t think any of the others do.”

“Yeah, okay, that helps, actually.” He hears Bev take a breath, pause, and then let it out without speaking. “No. No fuckin’ way.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re going to say I should tell him. No _way._ ”

“I just think you should tell him that we’re not, and never have been, and never will be sleeping together!”

"He hung up on me! That's a universally understood signal that he's fucking pissed and doesn't want to talk to me!”

“Why would he be so upset about it, Richie? Why?”

“Oh, no, don’t do this to me, don’t,” Richie groans. “Come on.”

“I’m not doing anything to you,” Bev says. “I just think you should talk to him. That’s all. At least tell him this is just tabloid bullshit.”

“Bev—”

“I’ll stop,” she says, and it’s very gentle, for her. “Hey. Thanks for calling. And for being a good friend the other night.”

“Oh, come on, you’re going to make me cry,” Richie manages. “Not cool.”

“Don’t cry, you big baby,” Bev says. “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you back later, okay? Talk to Eddie, I mean it.”

After she hangs up, Richie pulls the pillow over his face, yells into it, ignores another call from Steve, and finally manages to pry himself out of bed to prod at the tiny coffee maker until it starts brewing. There’s a coffee shop downstairs that’ll probably have something that doesn’t taste like boiled tires, but he needs to be awake _now._

He downs the disgusting cup of coffee, pulls his pants on, stares at his jittery expression in the mirror. Opens up Twitter, then closes it again before he can pick a fight with like six different people at once.

“Fucking nut up or shut up,” he tells his reflection, and takes his phone out again. Before he can dial Eddie’s number, it rings again in his hand, startling him enough that he almost drops it. Sure enough, the screen reads, _EDDIE SPAGHETTI_.

Richie gives momentary consideration to changing his name, leaving the country, and becoming a fucking yak herder or something, and then he takes a deep breath and answers. “Hey, man, look, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Um.”

“Wait, did you butt-dial me again?”

“No, I just…” Eddie trails off, then sighs. “I’m sorry. I called to apologize. I shouldn’t have just—I’m trying to get better about this. About processing my emotions in a healthy manner. And, I, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

It’s very stiff, clearly rehearsed, which is weirdly reassuring.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you weren’t yelling at me,” Richie says. It comes out entirely too fond, and he hears Eddie’s sharp intake of breath and keeps talking, quickly, trying to get it all out before he loses his nerve. “It’s just tabloid bullshit, man, we got shitfaced, she cried on my shoulder about Ben—they’re hooking up now, by the way, fucking finally—”

“Wait, Bev and Ben?” Eddie interrupts. Like always, he slides neatly sideways into the flow of Richie’s words, grabbing back the conversational reins like nobody else could ever manage. “Really?”

“Yeah, really, come on, you didn’t see that coming?”

“I—okay, yeah, I did,” Eddie admits. “But then I saw that article, and—”

“Dude,” Richie says. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out, then says, “I’m gay. I’m not sleeping with Bev, I promise.”

There’s a long silence. He squeezes his eyes shut. Revisits that whole yak herder idea.

“Oh,” Eddie says finally. And then, “Uh. Me too, actually.”

“You’re—not sleeping with Bev?” Richie asks dumbly. There’s something huge and hopeful expanding inside of him, and he’s in his pajama pants in a hotel room in Vegas, still half-asleep, and Eddie is on the other side of the fucking country, there’s no way this is happening now.

“That too,” Eddie says, with a exasperated snort of laughter. “Asshole.”

It comes out sounding like an endearment, which, actually, a lot of Eddie’s insults do. Now that he thinks about it.

“Oh,” Richie manages.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you, I kept waiting for the right moment, and then I thought—you’re going to be in New York in a couple of weeks, right, so I was thinking we could go out to—to dinner or something, and we could talk, and I’d be able to see you in person, and then I could. Tell you. In person.”

“Breathe, Eds,” Richie says. He feels giddy. “Out to dinner, like… a date?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. And then, tripping over that, “Look, I get it if you don’t want to, just because we’re both—I mean, that’s probably presumptive of me to—”

“Yes,” Richie interrupts, because there’s no way he’ll ever get a word in edgewise when Eddie is on a roll like this. Holy shit. Holy _shit._

“Yes?” Eddie asks, sounding derailed.

“Yes. I’ll go to dinner with you. Like a date.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. He sounds—happy, shocked. Richie wonders suddenly how long he's been working up to this, which is a wonderful thought: that Eddie has been thinking about asking him out, that he was _nervous_ about it. “I could—if you want, I could pick you up at the airport?”

“In your dickmobile Land Rover?” Richie asks, and grins when Eddie sputters. “Only if we can make out in the backseat.”

“Fine,” Eddie retorts. “No paparazzi.”

Richie flings himself back on the bed so hard he bounces, laughing gleefully. “I make no promises.”


End file.
